


A Shameless Animal

by Lauralot



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Animal Traits, Crack Treated Seriously, Dry Humping, Gen, Genetically Engineered Beings, HYDRA Trash Party, Happy Ending, Implausible science, Medical Experimentation, Psychological Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2015-11-18
Packaged: 2018-05-02 03:27:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5232215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/pseuds/Lauralot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>HYDRA has a plan to make the Avengers more compliant.</p><p>It doesn't work quite as expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Steve wakes up choking.

He can _taste_ it, the acrid vapor burning in his throat, filling his lungs and blinding his eyes. He’s gagging, struggling, hands waving blindly, trying to find an out. To find whoever threatened his team and clamp his jaws around their necks, _tearing_ —

“Whoa,” someone says. Steve feels a hand grab his own and the world rights itself. “Easy, big guy. We got extracted. We’re safe now.”

Steve stops struggling, blinking the sleep from his eyes. He can see. The room’s too bright and every breath is like sandpaper in his throat, but they’re in a hospital. He’s alive. And so is Rumlow, though the man looks pale and exhausted, dark circles under his eyes.

“What—” His voice is hoarse. Steve doesn’t know if that’s from sleep or whatever gas they were exposed to. He’s unbalanced, almost sliding off the hospital bed, and Rumlow’s trying to push him back onto the mattress. He buries his face against Rumlow’s shoulder, trying to collect himself. Taking in the scent of him. “What happened to the others?”

“Everyone’s alive.” Rumlow’s nudged him to stability, and now he steps back, easing himself into a chair beside Steve’s bed. “We’ve been here for two days. That shit they sprayed took us all outta commission, and the extraction team too. SHIELD had to call in Stark to fly our asses out, and now Potts has him practically chained to a bed here so they can make sure that gas didn’t work its way through his suit.”

Rumlow’s voice is as hoarse as his own, but strangely loud in the quiet of the room. Must be the acoustics. Or maybe Steve’s just overly sensitive from all the chemicals they were exposed to. “Their conditions?”

“Looks like everyone’s affected differently,” Rumlow says. “Rollins is puking everything up. I’ll be sitting there doing nothing and suddenly my heart’s going a hundred miles an hour. Murphy’s still sleeping, but all his vitals are normal. Romanoff...well, I have no idea about Romanoff. I tried to visit and I swear she _growled_ at me.”

“Must be your bedside manner,” Steve mutters.

“As far I can tell from the doctors’ bullshit, we’ll be outta here as soon as they’re sure we won’t drop dead or cause a zombie apocalypse,” Rumlow says. He must be feeling too out of it to swat at Steve for that remark. “Watch out for Murphy’s tech friends. They make him some Brussels sprout crap to cheer him up, but since he’s out of it, they’re trying to feed it to us.”

He’s in the hospital for a week. Blood tests, urine tests, neurological, vision, hearing, anything the staff can think of. The bleeps of the machine in the hearing test are so loud and grow so shrill that Steve ends up ripping off the headphones in annoyance. The doctors murmur to themselves about super soldier hearing as Steve stalks off to the vending machine.

Murphy’s friends do bring him Brussels sprouts, so bitter and oily that just the _smell_ is a slap in the face and it takes all he has not to throw the plate at the wall. Later, Steve feels guilty about it and visits Murphy’s room. He holds Murphy’s hand, and the holding turns to nudging against his palm, again and again, but Murphy doesn’t stir.

After seven days Steve and Rumlow are released, one day after Natasha threatened her way out. An orderly pushes Steve’s wheelchair through the doors and the fresh air, the sunlight, is such a relief after a week stuck inside that Steve’s suddenly bolting up, racing across the hospital lawn. He’s not going anywhere, just running for the sake of it. He moves in circles, arms outstretched, flooded with both energy and relief.

“Got that out of your system?” Rumlow asks when Steve slips into their provided car, blushing.

“Even I go a little stir crazy sometimes.”

“Must be an Avengers thing,” Rumlow says. “Nurses told me Romanoff did it too.”


	2. Chapter 2

With a grunt, Rollins eases himself onto the bleachers. “I can’t feel my legs.”

“Bastards.” Rumlow’s mopping at his face with a towel nearly as drenched as his shirt. “Those pussies couldn’t do half of what they put us through. Probably get off on bossing us around.”

It’s been three weeks since the hospital discharge. None of the team is allowed back in the field until they’re cleared by a physical, which is why they’re in the Triskelion gym. And the field tests for STRIKE are always grueling. Well, grueling for anyone who isn’t a super soldier.

“Maybe you’re getting old,” he says.

“Coming from the guy hacking up a lung,” Rumlow counters, draping the towel around his shoulders. “I thought super soldiers never broke a sweat.”

Steve blinks. Hacking up a lung? He hasn’t had an asthma attack since the forties. And if the serum were wearing off, he’d have noticed long before—

There’s a panting sound. It’s been following Steve since halfway through the physical, and he’d attributed it to one of his teammates. But both Rollins and Rumlow have their mouths shut, and neither of their chests are rising and falling in time with the noise.

Steve’s jaw is slack. Not gaping, but open. His tongue rests on his lip, and the sound is coming from him.

He forces his mouth shut, turning his head to hide the heat blossoming over his face. “I’m not sweating,” he says.

“No,” Rumlow says. “You’re just going batshit. No wonder you’re Murphy’s favorite now.”

Murphy was unconscious for a week and a half. Aside from some loss of muscle mass and stiffness when he woke, everything checked out, and he was released after another week of observation. Today was his first day back at work, and Steve and the rest of the STRIKE team had come down to his cubicle to welcome him home.

Steve gave him a gift card to a vegan bistro, and Murpy had literally squealed, springing out of his seat to hug Steve. The noise hurt his ears, but Steve had smiled, hugging back. Murphy was a sweet kid, even if he was bizarre. Steve had felt out of place just walking into the bistro for the card. He’d been craving meat lately, more and more.

“You’re so nice,” Murphy had said. “I was afraid to work with you at first, sir, and Agent Romanoff too, but you’re both so nice. I feel like I can really trust you.”

Steve had smiled.

“Sounds like somebody’s sore he lost to the super soldier,” Steve says now, smirking at Rumlow.

“Sounds like somebody’s getting his ass slapped with a towel.” Rumlow grunts as he gets up. “Come on, I’m getting a shower.”

“You go,” Steve says. “I’ll get one at home.”

“Too good for the locker room?” Rollins asks.

“You guys learn how to aim and maybe I’ll stop by.” Steve wrinkles his nose. “The whole place reeks of piss.” Lately more than ever. It actually stings in his sinuses nowadays.

“Oh, come on.” Rumlow rolls his eyes, chuckling. “Since when does being a super soldier make you a bitch? You’ve been in trenches, but now you’re too good for a communal shower?”

“I didn’t have a choice back then,” Steve counters. “Now I do. And the thing about being a super soldier is that even my standards are higher.”

He’s heading for the door when Rumlow actually _whistles_ after him, and of course Steve turns around, because how is he supposed to ignore that? He’s pretty sure he’s obligated to tackle Rumlow for that one. Or at least slap his ass with a towel. “Seriously?”

Rumlow just smirks. “It worked, didn’t it? C’mere.”

“You’re in for it,” Steve warns. Shaking his head, he follows them into the showers.


	3. Chapter 3

“What was that?” Steve demands, and Natasha just scowls.

It’s their first mission since the gassing. It’s simple, presumably to be sure that they can handle going back into the field. Find out if there are any lingering chemicals in their blood that might flare up with a spike of adrenaline or something. They stopped an illegal arms deal. There was a minor scuffle, but the dealers and clients are both subdued now, being marched to the van.

“I don’t know what you’re referring to,” Natasha says, staring straight ahead.

“You blew our cover by screaming in the guard’s face,” Steve says. Natasha’s job had been to subdue the man watching their entrance. She’d done it easily, of course, but once they’d slipped in, she’d cried out, and all eyes were on them. It hadn’t even sounded human to Steve at the time, but rough and deep and wild. For a second he’d thought of attack dogs. “Did he hurt you?”

“Don’t patronize me, Steve.” Her frown deepens. “He struggled. I startled him back into compliance. That’s all.”

“Since when do spies go around shrieking?”

“If you don’t like the way I handle myself,” Natasha says, quickening her pace, “you’re free to find someone else.”

“Nat, wait.” He rushes to catch up. “I didn’t mean that. I just want to make sure that you’re okay.”

“I’m fine.” Maybe she really is. That’s the thing about Natasha: she can project any image of herself that she wants, and it’s almost impossible to tell if it matches what she’s feeling. “It won’t happen again. If you need to report this to Fury, do it.”

“I’m not reporting you to Fury! I’m just worried, all right?” He tries to smother the frustration growing in him. They’re a team. They should all be willing and allowed to care for each other, or how can they accomplish anything? “Are you _sure_ nothing’s wrong? This isn’t like you.”

Finally, she turns to look at him. And finally, that impenetrable mask starts to break. “I—” Natasha hesitates. “Ever since the last mission, since I’ve been out of the hospital, I’ve—”

Murphy screams.

Steve whirls around, taking in the situation. Murphy was escorting one of the dealers. The man’s cuffed, weaponless, but he still managed to shove Murphy to the pavement and he’s trying to run. Rumlow’s already trained a gun on the man, shouting for him to stop. But Murphy’s hauling himself up and his face is scraped from the asphalt, and Steve’s running.

It only takes a second, if even that, before Steve slams into him, sending both of them hurtling to the ground. He flips the man over, keeping him pinned with his own body, and Steve is _snarling_. He hurt Murphy. Murphy’s nice. He’s _good_. He needs to be protected, and this man _hurt_ him. Steve can’t hear the words the man is pleading, focused on his throat. He wants to tear it out, feel it crunch between his jaws.

“Stop!” It’s Rumlow’s voice. He should listen, he knows he should, but he can’t stop growling.

“Steve.” It’s Natasha now. She’s worried, and that makes him hesitate.

“Stop it, Rogers!” Rumlow still sounds forceful. “Let him go right now!”

But he _hurt_ Murphy.

“Get your ass back to the van, Rogers! You’re being bad! So bad! Get moving _now_!”

Bad? Steve pulls away immediately, shrinking in on himself. The dealer’s still shaking on the pavement, but Steve barely sees him anymore. He doesn’t want to be bad. He just wanted Murphy to be safe. He’s supposed to be good.

“I know you hear me, Rogers!” Rumlow sounds so, so angry. “Get in the van.”

He forces himself to stand up, head down as he walks away. There’s a strangled whimper rising in his throat. He can feel Natasha and Murphy’s wide-eyed stares without even looking. And he can feel how mad he’s made Rumlow. It takes everything he has to keep from crawling under the bench.

He never meant to be _bad_.


	4. Chapter 4

“I’m losing my mind.” Steve buries his face in his hands to hide the tears trickling down his skin. He doesn’t try and stop himself from crying. Whenever he tries that, the whimpering starts back up. Steve’s afraid that if he lets that happen, the whimpers will turn into long, mournful howls that he’ll never be able to stifle.

He’s worried they’ll lock him up and he’ll never see a friendly face or feel a familiar touch again.

“You’re not insane,” Rumlow says. His voice is soft, as close to gentle as Steve’s ever heard, but all Steve can think of is how he’d shouted _Bad!_ “Murphy was in a coma after the last mission. And he’s got no business doing field work in the first place—I don’t know how the fuck he got into this. It’s like watching someone attack a goddamn baby. You got a little rough. It’s not the end of the world.”

Steve shakes his head. That wasn’t a little rough. He ought to be on probation from the team. “I could have killed him.”

“And you didn’t,” Rumlow says. “You were almost foaming at the mouth, but it’s not like I had to haul you off the guy. Calm down, Cap.”

“You were mad.” Steve’s voice is so small.

They’re at Rumlow’s apartment. Steve isn’t sure how they got there. They’re returned the Triskelion and Steve had just barely slipped his street clothes back on when Rumlow was barking “Rogers! Get over here!” at him. He’d expected to be dragged before Fury for a disciplinary hearing right then and there.

Instead, he’d found himself hustled to the parking garage. And then here, where Rumlow had offered him a beer and a seat on the couch.

Steve hasn’t taken either, pacing back and forth, shaking with nervous energy.

“I wanted to make sure I could avoid writing out an incident report.” Rumlow props up his feet on the coffee table. “I don’t give a shit about some asshole smuggling guns to sell to drug dealers. I just wanted to make sure you were in control.”

“I’m _not_ in control! I haven’t been since the last mission!”

“What do you mean?” Rumlow leans forward a little on the couch, feet touching back down on the floor, but he doesn’t look worried. How can he be so calm?

“I mean today! And yesterday—I was driving home on my bike, and then there was this car beside me, and suddenly I just wanted—I wanted to _scream_ at it. And last week I was in a meeting, and I had this itch on my neck, and I started scratching at it and then five minutes had gone by and I couldn’t remember any of them!”

“So you had road rage and you zoned out during a meeting?” Now Rumlow looks like he’s struggling not to laugh. “Sorry, Cap, I don’t buy that you’re at risk of going berserk.”

Steve buries his face in his hands again. Rumlow doesn’t get it, and Steve doesn’t know how to put it into words. Everything’s wrong. His hearing, his vision, his own _mind._ A few days ago he’d passed a woman walking her dog on the street, and staring at the little terrier, he’d had to fight back the urge to _growl_. To show dominance to a puppy. He can’t trust himself anymore. He needs someone else looking after him. Making the calls until whatever this is goes away.

But he doesn’t have any friends close enough that he can ask to take on that burden. He needs more than a friend, anyway. He doesn’t know what it is that he needs.

“Steve,” Rumlow says. “Sit.”

Steve sits down on the floor. Rumlow should sweep more often.

“No,” Rumlow says. There’s a faint sound, and Steve looks up. Rumlow’s patting his thigh. “Sit here.”

That’s how Steve ends up with his head resting on Rumlow’s lap, his body half on the couch and half on the floor. Rumlow’s carding his fingers through Steve’s hair, paying special attention to the spaces just behind his ears, and the relief is so overpowering that Steve can’t help but cry again.

“I thought you hated me,” he mutters.

“Breathe, big guy. You’re good.”

“I’m going crazy.” Steve shuts his eyes. He doesn’t want to move. He just wants to stay here forever, feeling the heat of Rumlow’s body, taking in the smell of his beer and detergent and sweat, and hearing that he’s good forever.

“It’s all right,” Rumlow says. “You’re okay. I’ll look out for you, Cap. I promise.”

And that’s what he needs. The realization is so sudden that Steve barely notices how sad Rumlow sounds. Rumlow was already a friend. The whole team was. But he needs more than a friend now.

“You’re good,” Rumlow’s saying. “You’re such a good boy.”

He needs a master.

Then Rumlow’s other hand is touching him, and something sharp pricks against his throat.


	5. Chapter 5

“—turn that shit off, Murphy.”

Brock’s voice. He’s angry. Steve tries to curl in on himself, but there’s something in his way. Cold, rigid. Metal. He can smell it.

“But it’s good, boss!” Murphy’s voice.

There’s something pressing against Steve’s face. He opens his eyes.

They’re in a van. Not one of SHIELD’s; the setup isn’t the same. Steve’s pinned to the wall, thick metal bands around his wrists, stomach, and ankles. He can’t lean forward at all. They must be magnetic. There’s leather over his mouth and nose, strapped tight around his head, forcing his mouth shut.

Steve growls.

On the bench across from him, Rumlow goes white. Murphy, in the driver’s seat, stiffens but doesn’t move.

“Hey, big guy,” Rumlow says, holding up his hands. “Easy.”

He snarls, jerking against his restraints. Half-formed sounds spill out of his mouth, muffled by the gag. Rumlow’s not a friend. Rumlow’s _bad_. Dangerous. And when Steve breaks his way out of his bindings, he’s going to tear Rumlow limb from limb.

Rumlow doesn’t look so pale now. “So those’ll hold you too,” he mutters, and Steve goes still. Who else has Rumlow locked up like this? What’s he planning? Are he and Murphy double agents? Serial killers? Sex traffickers?

He’s growling again.

“Listen.” Rumlow swallows hard. Steve can smell the sharp tang of fear over the scent of the man’s sweat. Pathetic. “We’re not gonna hurt you. I know you’ve got questions, and I’m going to take the muzzle off—but first you need to _listen_. It’s not gonna do anyone any good if you miss everything I say ‘cause you’re barking your head off.”

Steve’s mouth presses against the gag, teeth bared. He doesn’t _bark_.

“We might as well get the worst of it out of the way now.” Rumlow lowers his hands, tensing all over. “HYDRA’s been a part of SHIELD since its founding, and we’re agents of HYDRA.”

It’s ten minutes before Steve stops struggling, snapping and barking behind the leather. He’s dented the wall that he’s strapped to, pulling the steel inward with his movements. Rumlow’s moved on his own bench, pressed up against the back of the driver’s seat now. His hand is on a stun baton.

“Got that out of your system?” he asks.

Steve snarls.

“They’re not like the organization you fought in the war.” Murphy sounds so earnest. Steve wants to tear out his jugular. “They’ve changed since Schmidt’s death, sir. Now they’re devoted to—”

“Murphy, shut the hell up,” Rumlow orders. “Anyway, I guess it’s more accurate to say we _were_ agents of HYDRA. ‘Cause HYDRA wanted you as their guinea pig, Cap, and now that we’re getting you off their radar, we’re not about to be welcomed back with open arms.”

_I hope they kill you_ , Steve thinks. _I hope you suffer beyond imagination_.

“Listen, HYDRA’s gotten into genetic splicing as of late. Get some animal DNA into a human, build a better soldier,” Rumlow explains. “Guess they got sick of failing to recreate your serum. Anyway, they did some tests last year with dog genes. Made their test subjects more obedient. Devoted to their ‘pack,’ so less likely to pull a double-cross. Sharper senses too. The plan was to do the same to the Avengers, get them to heel at HYDRA’s command.”

“Over my dead body,” Steve snaps, but it’s muffled into unintelligibility through the gag.

“That gas that knocked us all out? It was a setup. They just wanted you, Romanoff, and Stark at the hospital so they could shoot you up with dog essence. And Murphy wasn’t in on it, by the way, so don’t kill him.”

“I’m a level two,” Murphy adds.

“Shut up,” Steve and Rumlow say together. Again, Steve can’t be understood.

“The shit that’s going on with you?” Rumlow counts off on his fingers. “Yelping at cars, snapping your teeth, wiggling your ass when someone pets you like you think you’ve got a tail—”

Another growl. He does _not_.

“—the way Romanoff barked in that guy’s face, none of that happened with the test group. Either they didn’t observe them long enough, or whatever’s already been pumped in your bodies is fucking with the desired effects. And don’t look at me like that, Rogers, you shook your ass.”

Steve glares. _Get to the point._

“I was supposed to observe you, establish a position of dominance. Only you had to go and spark whatever conscience I had left, so now we’re getting the hell outta Dodge. And no, I don’t know if it’s permanent.” Rumlow shrugs. “Sorry. I’ve got a safehouse nobody knows about. Romanoff and Stark are gonna join us there. Murphy sent them encrypted messages. And whatever else the kid has going on in his head, nobody cracks his codes unless he wants ‘em too. I’m gonna take off the muzzle now. Don’t bite me.”

He undoes the straps. Steve doesn’t bite. He just spits in Rumlow’s face.

“ _Bad_ ,” Rumlow scolds, and Steve tries to pretend it doesn’t sting. “Got any questions, or was that all you wanted to express?”

“Why are you helping me?” Steve demands.

Rumlow smirks, wiping at his face with his sleeve. “What can I say? I’ve got a soft spot for dogs.”

“Fuck you, Brock.”

“Hey,” Rumlow says. “Better than you chewing up my shoes.”


	6. Chapter 6

The mattress is shaking.

That’s what wakes Brock up. Before he can even open his eyes, something far more pressing—literally—comes to his attention. Someone’s lying on top of him, half on his leg and half on his stomach. And from the weight, it has to be Rogers.

So this is how he dies. Torn to shreds by a feral American hero.

Except Rogers is panting, not snarling.

Brock risks opening his eyes.

Rogers is on top of him, each of his legs straddling Brock’s thigh. He’s wearing the damn dog pajamas that Murphy bought for him, with the red, white, and blue bandanna tied around his neck. Murphy’s never allowed to go on a supply run again. Rogers has a pink tinge to his cheeks, his tongue hanging out. He’s not looking at Brock, just staring into space.

And, yeah. He’s humping Brock’s leg.

There’s no intimacy to it. It’s mindless, automatic. Cap woke up hard, found the nearest warm body, and went to town. Murphy must have taken Romanoff and Stark out to play in the woods. They love chasing that stupid Frisbee. And that leaves Brock to get humped by Dog Steve.

It’s so bizarre, so impersonal, that it’s almost not even embarrassing. Brock should avert his eyes. There’s no way Cap won’t punch him for this when he comes back to himself. But fuck it. They’re stuck in a cabin in the middle of nowhere and the Avengers will probably throw his ass in jail at the first chance they get. He’s going to enjoy the show.

It’s only a few minutes later when Rogers tenses, grunting, and then goes limp on top of Brock. He can feel the breath, panting and warm against his shirt.

“You done?” he asks. “Get up. Get a shower.”

It takes Rogers a minute, and he’s blushing bright red, but he does as he’s told.

They’ve been in the cabin for three days. Brock still isn’t sure how Stark and Rogers kept Romanoff from killing him when he explained the situation. Stark is bringing Banner in to try and find a way to reverse this. Murphy and Brock have agreed to give up all the intel they have if it means not dying. And Rollins will be coming up to the cabin today with the final incentive that Brock hopes will earn them protection.

Brock kind of wishes that Banner can’t reverse it. Watching the three of them tackling each other in the woods, giggling and yelping and wearing stupid bandannas that Murphy carefully tied onto them: it’s fucking weird, but it’s kind of nice. He can get used to Avengers who melt onto his lap when he tells them they’re good. Or who chase squirrels. That was hilarious.

He and Rogers are setting lunch on the table when Murphy guides Romanoff and Stark back inside. They’re all covered in dirt and grass, leaves stuck in their hair, and Stark’s still playfully nipping at Romanoff before Rumlow sends them off to wash up.

Romanoff beats Stark to the bathroom. Then she waits outside the door, tackling him when he comes out. Stark ends up carrying her to the table, piggyback.

They eat like, well, dogs, but Cap gets up as soon as his plate is licked clean, returning with a dishrag to wipe up the mess. 

“Good boy,” Brock says, smiling when Rogers tries to wag the tail he doesn’t have.

They’re all sprawled on the couch in what can only be described as a puppy pile when there’s a knock on the door. The Avengers freeze, making quiet sounds that aren’t quite barks.

“Stay still,” Rumlow says, so of course they all crowd around him when he opens the door.

Outside is a haughty-looking Winter Soldier and a very scratched up, bruised Rollins.

Rogers sniffs the air, yelping with excitement. “Bucky!”

He rushes around Rumlow to hug their collateral. The Winter Soldier hisses, shoulder arching up, and swipes at Cap with fingers bent into claws.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that we've come to the end of this story, I feel an explanation may be in order. I was talking to [ravenously](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenously/pseuds/ravenously) on Tumblr about how my favorite _Goosebumps_ book growing up was _My Hairiest Adventure_ , also known as [the one where the kids turn out to be dogs or something.](http://www.bloggerbeware.com/2008/06/26-my-hairiest-adventure.html) We then, for reasons of nonsense, applied the concept to the MCU, and so Dog!Steve was born.
> 
> The title of the fic comes from a scholium on Aristotle's _Rhetoric_ , explaining why philosophical cynicism is so named (the word cynic is derived from the Greek word for dog):
> 
>  
> 
> _There are four reasons why the Cynics are so named. First because of the indifference of their way of life, for they make a cult of indifference and, like dogs, eat and make love in public, go barefoot, and sleep in tubs and at crossroads. The second reason is that the dog is a shameless animal, and they make a cult of shamelessness, not as being beneath modesty, but as superior to it. The third reason is that the dog is a good guard, and they guard the tenets of their philosophy. The fourth reason is that the dog is a discriminating animal which can distinguish between its friends and enemies. So do they recognize as friends those who are suited to philosophy, and receive them kindly, while those unfitted they drive away, like dogs, by barking at them._


End file.
